


The Life and Death of Mr Sherlock Holmes

by ClueyLock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Character Death, Chloesfanfiction, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sickfic, ao3 - Freeform, flufffic, sadfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:23:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClueyLock/pseuds/ClueyLock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes hates it when people worry about his health, so when he falls dangerously ill, he doesn't say a word.</p><p>Especially not to Dr John H. Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sat curled up on the sofa in his midnight blue dressing gown, brow furrowed as he tried not to concentrate on the sharp pain in his chest.  
"Morning, Sherlock," John chirped cheerfully as he entered the living room, cup of coffee in one hand and newspaper in the other, "Lestrade found you a case."  
Sherlock's head snapped up upon hearing this, causing one of the bones in his neck to crack loudly, and the pain in his chest to stab at him ruthlessly. Sherlock winced.  
"You okay?" John asked, a little concerned for his flatmate.  
"Yeah, fine," said Sherlock, "I'm just tired, and aching a little."  
"Alright," John said, dismissing his concern completely. He always worried for Sherlock. "Anyway, you'd better call Lestrade now if you want to get to the crime scene first." John dialled Lestrade's number and handed the phone to Sherlock.  
"Lestrade? You have a case?" Sherlock asked, pulling himself upright on the sofa.  
"Oh, yeah. I'll text you the address. I believe this particular murder shall interest you. Come now." Lestrade hung up the phone before Sherlock even had a chance to accept the invitation. The mobile buzzed and the address that Lestrade had sent popped up on the screen.  
"Come on John, the crime scene!" Sherlock announced, pulling on a pair of black trousers and an un-ironed shirt that were folded up on the seat next to him. One hand rubbing the sore spot on his stomach, Sherlock was ever so slightly doubled over as he walked over to the door where his coat was hung on the coat stand next to it. Sherlock groaned as another stab of pain shot through his body like an arrow, but quickly composed himself as he heard John's footsteps nearing.  
"Ready?" John asked, grabbing his wallet off of the side cabinet. Sherlock merely nodded, afraid that if he opened his mouth then John would be able to hear the pain in his voice.  
John glanced out of the window and noticed that a cab was nearing their street, which was exactly what they needed.  
"Cab!" John cried and opened the door and flew down the stairs before running out into the street at an attempt to hail it.  
Sherlock limped to the top of the stairs, and, eventually, managed to make his way down the stairs and out the front door to join John who was now already sat in the cab waiting for him.  
The pain inside of Sherlock was making walking extremely painful, and it felt as if both his stomach and his chest were going to explode.  
"Sherlock," John said, as his friend stepped into the backseat of the cab to join him, "what's wrong, seriously?"  
"I-"  
"Seriously." John said, glaring at Sherlock.  
"Um...I've just got a...erm...cold."  
"Oh," said John, surprised at Sherlock's answer. Usually Sherlock would try and hide away from John when his health wasn't 100% okay. "Okay, driver - can you take us to this address please?" John handed over a slip of paper with the address of the crime scene that he had noted down on, before turning his attention to Sherlock. "Do you want a tissue, Sherlock?" he asked, as his friend sniffled miserably.  
Sherlock nodded and took the tissue offered by John and held it to his mouth and coughed, trying his very best to look as if he had a measly cold and nothing more.  
Sherlock pulled the tissue away from his mouth, and was shocked to see a fairly large blood spatter in the white fabric. He felt the blood draining from his face as he realised that the chest pains clearly weren't "just nothing," as he'd said to John only a few days ago.  
Tucking the tissue into his pocket, he leaned back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, concentrating hard on blocking out the agony that was writhing inside him, and watching as the buildings blurred past them.

* * * *

"We're here, Sherlock," John called as he hopped out of the cab and paid the taxi driver the fare, "eight quid just to drive three blocks? Really?"  
"I don't make the rules, son." The taxi driver grumbled, stuffing the cash into his pocket and resetting the cash metre.  
John noticed that his partner hadn't come out from the cab, and went around to open Sherlock's door for him.  
Sherlock was slumped against the window, presumably fast asleep, with his dark curls pressing against the glass. John knocked on the car window, "hey, Sherlock, wake up!" 

No reply; not even a shift in movement.

The cab driver turned around in his seat and glared at Sherlock. "Hey, mister, up and out! I need to be elsewhere."  
John took hold of the car door handle and flung the door open, only to have Sherlock's body fall crashing down on him, which resulted in both of them falling out to the cold concrete pavement.  
"God damn it, Sherlock!" John panicked when he realised Sherlock wasn't moving, and his doctor's instincts immediately kicked in. He tried to roll his friend off of him, holding his head gently so that it wouldn't crack on the ground, so that he could check him over properly.  
"Sherlock?" John called, "can you hear me? Are you awake?"  
Sherlock moaned, and opened his eyes, gazing up at the sky.  
"Why...did you have to wake me up like that? You're so cruel sometimes, John..."  
"Sherlock..." John sighed, looking in dismay at the man in front of him who was still lying half-in half-out of the taxi. He grabbed Sherlock under his arms and pulled him completely out of the cab and hauled him upright.

* * * *

"Are you two alright?" Lestrade laughed as he strode over to a dazed Sherlock and a still shocked John.  
"Yeah," John muttered, "Sherlock here was just taking a nap."  
Sherlock glared at John, and then turned his attention to the police officer.  
"Lestrade. A briefing, if you will?"  
"Sure," nodded Lestrade, "right, well we have a white twelve-year-old child, female, who was found dead in that gentleman's home early this morning," Lestrade tilted his head in the direction of an elderly man talking to a younger officer, and looked as if he was in his mid-sixties, "the coroner is waiting for your interpretation of everything before he takes..." Lestrade glanced at his clipboard, "Miss Alice Crossley to the morgue."  
Sherlock shifted his gaze from the elderly man, to the house, then back to the man again.  
"He doesn't live here," Sherlock stated, which brought a few puzzled faces to look his way, "he owns the house, but he doesn't live here. Landlord. Sixty-five. Ex army soldier. A perfectionist, possibly OCD. New shirt. No crinkles. Perfectly polished shoes. No mud stains. Not something you would-" Sherlock's sentence was cut off as another stab of pain shot through his body, making him violently jerk before doubling over and almost falling into Lestrade.  
"Jesus!" Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's elbow and shouted for John, who had at that point been chatting with Anderson.  
"No," Sherlock growled, "get off me." Sherlock pulled his arm out of Lestrade's grip and instead sat down on the bench next to them.  
"Just...give me a minute." Sherlock panted, sweat beading on his forehead; his face scarily white.  
"John!" Shouted Lestrade again, ignoring Sherlock's comment. This time, John turned around and was just about to ask Lestrade what he wanted when he saw Sherlock, who had his head in between his knees and was gripping the bench as best he could in an attempt to stay upright.  
"Greg! Wha-"  
"I don't know," Lestrade said, worry filling his face, "I- I don't-"  
"You stupid man," John said, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands, "you weren't really just sleeping in the cab, were you? Why didn't you say something?"  
"Did," Sherlock protested, "cold."  
"This isn't a cold!" John snapped - he was about to continue telling Sherlock how foolish it was not to speak up when he was clearly extremely ill, but his gaze instead fell upon a bloodied tissue on the ground. Sherlock noticed it too, and quickly bent down to retrieve the tissue, in some sort of wild hope that John hadn't already seen it fall from his pocket.  
Just at that moment, another trickle of blood fell down the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock fell limp into John's arms.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's health is rapidly deteriorating, and John is terrified that he will lose Sherlock Holmes for real this time.  
> Forget faking deaths; this could be the real heartbreaking end.
> 
> Sickfic :)

John paced the hospital corridor just outside of Sherlock's room. The consulting detective still hadn't regained consciousness after his rather dramatic faint at the crime scene earlier, and John's worry just kept building up.  
"John!" Lestrade called, jogging down the corridor with his walkie-talkie in hand, "John, is he okay?"   
John let out a sigh and have a half-hearted shrug. "I have no idea. He hasn't woken up yet, and the doctors aren't telling me anything. I'm a doctor! I should know what's wrong! I should be in there, looking after him." Lestrade nervously glanced down as he noticed tears begin to brim the doctor's eyes. Everyone knew that there was something much more than a simple friendship between the two men. Something complex and beautiful that no-one could describe.  
"I should-" John began, but instantly halted his sentence as he heard the door behind him that led to Sherlock's hospital room click open.  
"Mr John Watson?" The nurse asked, glancing between Lestrade and John.  
"Doctor John Watson." John said firmly, and hurriedly strode into the room.  
"Sherlock?" John raced to Sherlock's bed, and leant over him, placing his hand on the man's damp and (still) extremely pale forehead.   
The detective was still in a deep sleep, and therefore completely unresponsive.  
John sunk into the plastic blue chair at the head of the bed, and gently stroked the dark curls out of Sherlock's eyes.  
"What happened."   
What John said was more of a statement rather than a question, and wasn't directed at anyone in particular.   
The nurse walked into the room and stood at the foot of Sherlock's bed, clipboard in hand.  
"I'm sorry," she began, "but we have no idea what is wrong with him. He doesn't appear to have any medical history..."  
John groaned, of course Sherlock doesn't have any medical history - he hated hospitals! And he was sure to hate John when he found out that the doctor had called him an ambulance.  
"Guess we'll just have to keep a close eye on him." The nurse finished.  
John glanced at Sherlock, his fragile frame lying helplessly under the white sheets.  
"If all you want to do is watch his progress, I can do that myself." John muttered carefully, "I am, like I said earlier, a doctor."  
The nurse looked back at her clipboard and, although looking slightly unsure, nodded. "I think that's fine...but you must bring him back in immediately if he starts to deteriorate in any way at all."  
John said nothing, his eyes locked on Sherlock, and then, "thank you."

* * * *

Several hours later, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open.   
It was late evening, and John was hunched up in his plastic chair, sleeping away the traumatic day as if it were a bad dream.  
Sherlock glanced up at the ceiling, a pained sigh escaping his lips as he realised he was in a hospital, hooked up to a drip.  
"Jawn," Sherlock poked John lightly and watched with curious grey eyes as his doctor's face lit up with relief.  
"Sherlock!" John cried, jumping up out of his chair, causing the plastic stool to fall backwards and crash on the floor.  
"John, why am I in a...hospital?" Sherlock spat the words as if they were venom, and winced as a shot of pain once again ran through his body.  
Sitting up, the consulting detective threw his legs over the side of the bed, and steadied himself as dizziness overcame him.  
John hurried around to the other side of the bed, and took Sherlock's arms in his hands, supporting the man as he took to his feet.  
"Wait." Sherlock frowned, glancing down. "John, it appears someone has taken my clothes..."   
John stifled a giggle as he saw the look on Sherlock's face change from confusion to pure annoyance.  
"LESTRADE!" John shouted, turning as the detective burst into the room. "Sherlock has no clothes-"  
"I'm onto it," Lestrade grinned, winking at the grimacing Sherlock who was stood awkwardly in his hospital gown, supported by John's strong soldier's grip.  
"Let's get out of here," Sherlock pressed, "I have work to do."  
Sherlock took a step forward, the dizziness drowning his head once more, the little grey clouds fogging his vision. A feeling of sickness churned in his stomach.  
It all happened in a blur; Sherlock's knees buckled, his head with his gorgeous dark curls fell forwards and knocked against John's shoulder, causing John to flinch as the impact of Sherlock's head made contact with his bullet wound scar. 

Then complete blackness.

John attempted to control his panicking as he lowered his friend to the floor.   
The panic in John's gut quickly turned to a twisted horror as he struggled to find Sherlock Holmes' pulse.  
"DOCTOR!"


End file.
